This is our cranked-up drug story, by Iphgenia Baal. It was the F*cked Issue, after all…
WHAT COMES BEFORE PART B? PART-AAAY!
“Why don’t you just be like us?”
Everyone in London is on drugs. Not just the cool kids. And not just the weirdos. Even the plebs are doing it; the would-be straights and the goody-goodies.
Worse than that, everyone’s got a drug problem. No longer the Golden Boy: paunches and hangovers, nevermind the hang ups.
“Don’t I know you from the Portobello Road?” someone asks someone else in Barden’s buttfucked Boudoir.
“Yar. I’m moving to New York.”
In the PB Road days, at least the cocaine was good. Today, there have been so many busts and 10-year sentences handed out that even the half decent stuff that gets through is cut to shit. What’s the point of bingeing on organic smoothies if you’ll happily sniff rat poison?
Two days after his brother committed suicide, she found herself alone with him in the kitchen.
“Gems,” he said.
It’s a reflex.
“Cocaine killed my brother.”
These are quite weird words to say.
To be honest, it was probably the Valium that sent him crazy in the end. Plus, he’d been sober for a few weeks. It was an accumulation, of decades spent at the peripheries of the Kate Moss crew. They’d put on a good show at the funeral, carefully opting for the non-waterproof mascara.
“Yeah. I know. I’m sorry.”
She remembered the time they’d stayed at his house. They’d gone to bed, he’d stayed up all night. She woke to the sound of sobbing from down the hall. He’d crawled into the linen cupboard and wouldn’t come out. That was years back.
“I don’t wanna do coke anymore.”
Bemoaning, in a conversation with JRTC, that her life (oh woe) had no meaning; a writer in an age where no one read, trading in ideas at a time when people were actually offended by them.
“I’m gonna be broke and fucked for the rest of my life, and prob’ly go nuts, and I can only fuck people who hate me and I fucking hate the lot of the stupid cunts, but I don’t wanna end up with the freaks, but everyone, everything just ahhhh! Endless, nameless, shitty nothing.”
“Well you go raving every weekend.”
“That’s not a thing!”
“Yes it is. Living for the weekend. It’s a thing.”
“You know what mate? Fuck you.”
What started as a 10-pack of fags between eight –
“Two pull pass, yeah, two pull pass” –
has became a competition to see who can get most out of it the fastest, and for the longest. Tongue-lolling, puke-gurgling, pharmaceutical designer crap. I’m just not into that shit. I like getting away with it. Sitting through a mothers & babies screening of The Exorcist tripping my tits off; wandering through the crowds at South Bank, having been up for three days, and joining the submarine’s marching band; getting on the tube so stoned that it seems to make more sense to go the whole way round the circle line rather than have to go through Sloane Square. Throwing full grams of cocaine into the Thames outside the houses of Parliament, hurling money and keys in after them.
“Babble on Babylon! Slew dem cunts!”
Falling asleep on a rudeboy’s shoulder on the bus home.
“And what? And what? My sister would puke on you. Sorry. Sorry.”
Somewhere along the line, for most people, getting high became getting fucked. And they don’t go out and cause trouble, they hole up in kitchens that look the same as their parents kitchens; big pans hanging from the ceiling and something tiled, but mostly wood. Metaphysical deducation.
There are some people whose addiction is simply to oblivion. They are more charming because in their case the substance becomes less important. Cokeheads cling to their grams – using them as ways to keep and/or divide company. K-heads lose it, pawing through the multiple pockets of puffa jackets to find an oversized gram that has inevitably spilled out into their pockets, but there’s loads left. Oblivion addicts, who have a humility and simply accept what is on offer to them, go from at first being impossible to spot, to then being impossible to miss. 12 Valiums and a Special Brew just to get through the Eastenders Omnibus.
“Heroin is great. Because, you can lie around and feel like shit all day long, but when you’ve got to get something done, you have a little smoke and hey!”
The stronger in body but weaker in mind become small-time conspiracy theorists, culturing a paranoia based on shaky foundations: There’s only so many times you can stand about in your kitchen talking about David Icke and the fucking pyramids.
It is a case of circles and psychos. At all moments, you are untouchable, but Popularity comes in waves. At one of popularity’s peaks, you can get away with anything. Smash someone’s glasses, spit in the landlord’s face, spray up people’s Prius’s with the words, HUNTERESS THOMPSON WILL FUCK YOU UP.
“Don’t you get it – people only behave like that in the movies.”
“Poison dwarf. The movies are based on real life!”
Inevitably, this behaviour will outcast you. Getting “left out” is a weird one. You understand that it is not really a thing, but it is. And you know not to care, but you do. You begin to think things like “we all die alone!” but really, you know it’s all your fault. You start to change the way you look at it: Very few people have the willpower to sit alone and exist, but knowing this is the noblest state of affairs (and the only way
to get anything done), you force the hand of Fate and get yourself banished, then remember: I am not interested in cocaine cliques and bitchy photography. I never want to get a cab home in my life! Mi nuh like. I feel sorry for the Dalstonites, cos they’ll never know how shit it is to be a kid; to catch trains to the end of the line and back again, smokin puffs of joints in garden sheds and setting fire to policeman’s duvets and council estate bins with a gang of tearaway eight-year olds cheering you on.
“You can’t just push in like that!”
“You’re not going in front of me. That’s for sure.”
“A real fucking fighter aren’t you?”
“It has been known.”
“You should show some respect.”
“She’ll never love!”
Up for 3 days. Turn to the old woman.
“I can see your scalp.”
Drugs show you what epiphanies feel like. It is, however, perfectly possible to reach dizzying heights of consciousness alone and totally sober. You can think things that are so cool that they can make you cum, dance, fall over. But thoughts on drugs can prove problematic. Inertia? Something similar happens when you are hungry in an unfamiliar city.
“Shall we go in there?”
“Er.. dunno. Er.”
Approach the door.
And you can walk until you are starving, like some retard child who thinks that he can survive on Haribo alone. This never happens when you are on your own.
“You always assume everyone else is stupid and not sensitive to these things. But they see it too.”
“Well if they realise them, why don’t they do something about them?”
“They’re smart enough to realise that there’s nothing they can do.”
“O – dead smart.”
“I’ve gotta go.”
That Motion and Matter are inseparable &c; the key benefit of being blackballed from old drinking circles (asides from preservation of health) is that being on the outside makes it easier to watch the rest. It looks like people settling for these normal boring lives and they no doubt pity you but, another fucking wedding? I just sit back and just watch and just get nauseous and walk around with an empty bottle of Remi Martin startin shit like some 26-year old skinny Cartman.
From a decade and a half of razzing it, everyone’s got a style: Some leave before the party’s over, nipping out with who they consider to be ‘the good people’ and exiting to a house or a hotel, then picking off the dregs by phone. Others hold out to the bitter end, stumbling over chairs and lurching at big cow-looking girls in the hopes of landing a lift home. There are tears, rucks, a spattering of taxis shared in two directions, text wars and lost phones, head kicking-ins, kidnappings and lynch mobs, whatever! What a bunch of tossers. The party’s over! Everyone’s old! Even the teenagers – dry as fuck! Those who cling on to the bitter end are trying to keep a party alive that ran out of tunes years ago, staggering and haggard, half-fucking blind. The minibus is packed more tightly than ever.
Taxi for one?
Consider what cocaine is – the ultimate indulgence for people that have everything. Sold from 3rd World countries to 1st world countries, tax-free. Then you think of what cocaine does to those that take it – fucks their heads. With that set of facts in your fucked little mind (you can prove anything with facts), it can be argued that the drug trade is a direct attack by people who have nothing on people who have everything. Not through government-sanctioned international diplomacy, but more real ways – financially and psychologically.
There is no longer any balance between good and evil. All that can happen these days is that something becomes so evil that it gobbles itself up. But you can make, market and distribute anything as if it is illegal, it doesn’t have to be drugs. If someone with great enough vision had the inclination, there is a model already set up that they could employ to go about really fucking some shit up.
WELCOME TO PART B
Read this in print – pick up your copy of Strike! here